by Minh Wang ||
I don’t believe I’m a “writer.” I mean I started writing like most people who grew up going to general public schools and who wrote the bare minimum stories for their English courses in order to pass. Granted, I received a decent grade here and there for my stories, but nothing stood out and struck me upside the head saying You should be a writer! In fact, nothing in the education system struck me at all. I ended up with average marks, no scholarship, no money, and no direction.
This led me to join the military shortly after graduating high school. But life has a funny way of showing you things in a perverse way. In the military I found myself writing and reading more than I ever had. Writing became more than a just a burden, more than some assignment, more than red marks of corrected punctuation, and more than a grade from Mrs. Harper. Internet, computers, and cellphones were not as freely accessible at the time, so reading and music were my only immediate escapes. I found myself writing letters by hand about my experiences and turning them into stories for family and friends, never once realizing that what I was doing was called “writing.”
Fast forward two tours, honorable discharge papers, parties, binges, and girls. I found myself at the doorstep of self-loathing. I realized I hated the major I had picked entering college because I thought it would make money. I re-examined what I wanted to do, searching for something I was interested in. There was a good amount of back-forth, doubt, and discouragement, but I concluded I would try writing. Writing is something I’ve done, found interest in, and it couldn’t possibly be worse than Petroleum Engineering. Students in my Creative Writing classes were starting off just like me, new and ready to learn how to write.
My first day was an eye opener. I was naive to think the Creative Writing students would be green and fresh. Unlike most of my former fellow Petroleum Engineering students, who probably didn’t pick up a book on the calculation of fluids and its viscosity through porous materials prior to the class, most of the Creative Writing students were already deeply entrenched in academic literary knowledge. The teacher made us all circle our desks and introduce ourselves one by one with our name, favorite book, author, and writing style/genre. Students started naming things I never heard about. Down the row, each students said things like Dostoevsky or O’connor, a book like The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, or a surrealist writing style. I didn’t have a favorite author or book, let alone a writing style.
I grew more intimidated with each passing student and their connoisseur-like answers. One person even stole my last resort for any humble salvation when they used J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter. Not only was each person’s answer more lustrous and wonderful than the prior student, there was an ecstatic momentum that was building up to me. I was the 2nd to last person, and by the time my turn came around, the best I could come up with was The Godfather, by Mario Puzo, a book I had found underneath a cot in an abandoned tent at Camp Fallujah. A shockwave of disappointment and distaste vibrated through the room of students and teacher.I even heard someone scoff and take a drink of water to wash down the disapproval. Out of sympathy, the last student even tried to dumb down their answer, and yet it still sounded better than mine. I was exposed as a wanna-be.
The embarrassing exposure proliferated through the remainder of the course: that I was as worthy a writer as a show animal who could write with a pen or brush in its mouth. This was more pronounced each time we had group workshops. A student would have to write a story, handout copies to all the other students, and each of those students would edit anything from grammar, sentences, structures, and plots. At the end of workshop, students would voice their opinion about your work, saying something good and something bad. But when something is bad, even the good answers still sound bad. I detested this act of judgement, both receiving and giving. The former for obvious reasons but the latter also made me cringe. Who was I to tell someone what their work should or should not be like? I’ve been given no authority and have no rightful merit to say what is or isn’t good. Right? I’m not even a real writer in my own eyes. I finished and passed the course with a mental block and an awful taste in my mouth for what I once assumed would be greener pastures. I wasn’t a writer.
This didn’t lead me to quit and drop out but to only continue my education by taking non-peer-judging courses. I safely handed my papers in to the teacher’s disclosed eyes. I then proceeded to acquire the many books of authors I did not know, hoping somewhere between the pages of those books, I would acquire some minuscule foundation of what it meant to be a writer. This was a bad idea. It just increased the pressure and intimidation when reading a piece that is considered a great classics. Eventually, with choices of English courses dwindling down, I came across a class called Journal Practicum, a course in which you learn the in’s and out’s of publication and how the school’s literary journal is put together. I felt this course could teach me something or help me find what I was looking for in the depths of the writing abyss. As the course came along, I found there is more to being an editor and editing. I had thought we’d take some stories, correct some punctuations, put together the pieces, edit some margins or spacings, and throw in some artworks. No, there was judging involved in the process, and I still felt a bitterness to that sort of action. But soon after, I realized there is a gradual process involved and a safe disconnect. This was not like the full-blown chugging down or pouring criticism through a tube and funnel while everyone around is hollering. This was more like intimate sips of bartender’s choice Old Fashion drink, where some might not be as good as others, but you still thanked the writer, give them a courteous tip, and move on to the next piece. I became aware that when these pieces came to me voluntarily, affording the author a safety net of “Thank you for your submission.” I was able to read more clearly, closely, and unbiasedly. I wasn’t afraid to hurt anyone anymore, and with the roles reversed I would have that same luxury one day. I liked this side of writing.
I know my endeavors to becoming a writer will not end here on the publishing/editor side, but I think I have come across a sort of safe haven where I could read work from peers who are just like me, pieces that will allow me to learn more about rules of punctuation, grammar, structures, and plots, plus my own analysis of why or why I did not like a story. There is also a kind of camaraderie, where all the editors are on one side, helping one another explain or differentiate each piece with each other. Thus, maybe one day I will be able to write something I find decent enough to submit to a literary journal/website and find out whether or not I am deemed worthy, while still keeping my self-esteem intact as a fake it ‘till you make it writer.
